Patrick McLean - How To Succeed in Evil

She makes her final notation in a file, closes it and looks up. “Do you have an app--Oh GOOD LORD! Ah-hem.” Agnes struggles to regain control of herself. She is not the kind of person who is easily rattled. But when faced with a visage that clearly belongs to the Pleistocene Era, it takes her a moment. It is one thing to suspect that many of those you share the earth with are some species of subhuman, but to actually have a caveman walk through the door is something else entirely.

Barry’s wide-spaced eyes and low, sloping forehead give no indications of intelligence. The general sheen of dullard in his eyes is enhanced by three letters, C R O, that are worked in scar tissue across his forehead.

Agnes decides it is best to proceed carefully. In a loud, slow voice, she asks, “Are. You. Lost?”

Barry shrugs.

“Do You Have An A Apoint Ment?”

Barry holds up the small wallet of papers that hangs around his neck. On the front, in large block letters, is his name.

“Of course,” she mutters under her breath. She forces a smile and reaches for the appointment book.

In his office, Edwin sits quietly behind his desk, paging through a volume by a Polish man named Dzerzhinsky. When the intercom buzzes, he closes the book carefully and places it on the desk with some degree of reverence.

“Yes Agnes?”

“It appears that a representative of the Union of Cavemen, Local Number Rock, is here about our yearly contribution of fire.”

“Is his name Barry?” Edwin asks.

“The creature is so labeled.”

Agnes shows Barry into Edwin’s high, sunlit office. At this point, most people take a moment to comment on the decor, or marvel at the view. Barry just throws his carcass into a chair. The chair, a very tasteful and expensive piece that is hand-crafted from maple and artisan leather, collapses under Barry’s weight. Barry doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps it is because this kind of thing happens to Barry all the time. Whatever the case, Barry looks at Edwin and sucks on his fist.

“I have heard that you are possessed of unusual talents," Edwin begins carefully.

Barry takes his fist out of his mouth and holds it above his head. A thin line of drool stretches from his mouth to the knuckle of his middle finger. Barry looks at the strand for a moment. When it snaps, he drops his arm downward and smashes a hole in the floor beside what is left of the chair. Edwin stretches over his desk and considers the damage. “Impressive,” says Edwin.

Barry raises his hand to strike again. Edwin acts quickly “No, no, no. Another demonstration will not be necessary.” Barry stops. He does not look happy, or at all familiar, with the exercise of self-control.

“I have been informed that you are at a loss for what to do with your talents.”

“Barry BASH!” he roars.

“Yes, of course but what do you bash? Or more to the point, what should you bash?”

Barry shrugs.

“Well,” says Edwin, rising from behind his desk, “ I can help you with that.” Edwin moves gracefully in front of a projector screen that is dropping from the ceiling. The title screen on the presentation reads, “Barry Banister, Bashing for Profit.”

“Barry, you have a set of unique physical talents.”

“Barry BASH!”

“Yes. That is exactly what I’m talking about. You are an incredibly destructive individual. And, if I may venture a personal insight, an incredibly misunderstood one as well. If I’m right, all your life people have told you not to break things.”

Barry nodded.

“Yet all your life--”

“Barry BASH!” This time the floor escapes unharmed, but a Travertine topped end table is pulverized by a flick of Barry’s finger. Edwin decides he’d better finish his pitch quickly, while he still has an office.

“That’s right. And how much money have you made by bashing things?” Barry looks confused. In truth, “Barry Bash” is his all-purpose response. But it doesn’t seem appropriate here. Barry is a one-note kind of guy. But like a Neil Young guitar solo, he makes the most out of a limited tonal range.

Edwin advances the presentation to the first slide. It is a picture of a gigantic sporting arena. “Now, as a general rule, I am not a fan of destruction. My purpose is to build wealth. Building wealth means creating value. Maximizing the scarce resources of time and talent.”

Barry looks around the room for something else to break.

“But this is the exception to the rule. Municipal authorities paid nine million dollars to demolish this building.” As he says this, the still picture transitions to video and Barry sees a series of precise detonations that result in the building’s collapse.

Barry giggles and claps his hands together concussively. “BOOM!”

“Yes,” Edwin says, “Boom. So what I propose is that we move you from the destruction business, to the de-construction business.”

Barry gives Edwin another one of his world-class blank looks. Edwin loathes to be so blunt about it, but he recognizes that it is time to take a simpler tack. “Do you want to get paid to wreck buildings?”

Barry becomes excited again. He nods vigorously. “Barry BASH!”

Edwin directs Barry to a small table on the side of his office. On the table is a contract. On top of the contract is an ink pad. Edwin offers Barry a ball-peen hammer.

“Merely smash the ink on this contract and we have a deal.”

Barry ignores the hammer and, laughing, smashes his fist clear through the table. Ink soaks into the contract. The deal is closed.

Edwin walks Barry to the elevator, talking mostly nonsense and using soothing, gentle tones. As the elevator doors close Edwin says, “We’ll be in touch when we have a project.” With Barry was safely out of the office and hurtling towards the ground floor, Edwin breathes a sigh of relief.

“What in God’s name was that?” asks Agnes.

“That may be our most significant opportunity to date.”

“What, you mean that brute with forehead villainous low?”

“Yes. He is powerful. And, I hope, not smart enough to ruin my plans for him with some terrible scheme of his own.”

“He is rather hard on the office furniture.”

“Yes, well. I trust you will lose no time in expensing the damage.”

“Edwin, are you sure this is wise? He does not seem like a reasonable man. Or reasoning. Or even a man at all really.”

“I understand your concern, but I assure you, I have the matter well in hand.”

Agnes makes an unpleasant face.

“No, really. All of my earlier setbacks have the same root cause. I was expecting unintelligent people to do intelligent things. It was a lack of wisdom on my part. But that is the genius. Not only are we asking Barry do what he loves doing and is already very good at, but we simply cannot overestimate his intelligence. He has none.”

“Edwin, he is a brute animal," says Agnes, not convinced.

“And animals can be trained.”

“But how will you communicate with this creature? You are not a trainer. You do not think like a brute or savage.”

Edwin smiles. “I have just the man for the job.”

Topper struggles to keep up with his large friend. He takes three steps to every one. Every ten steps or so, Topper must jog to catch up. He seems even more frantic than usual.

“Topper, I have a special job for you,” says Edwin.

“If it’s a special job, why don’t you hire a specialist?”

“I am. I mean, I have. And that specialist is you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a lawyer. And I don’t particularly feel like being a lawyer right now.”

“That’s perfect, I don’t want you to be a lawyer right now,” says Edwin